


Top of His Class

by battoff



Series: Subtext [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Jock AU, M/M, back by popular demand: simon being a distasteful in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17834915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battoff/pseuds/battoff
Summary: Simon Snow isn’t a big fan of literature. He’s never been quite good at it. It involves him using his words and his ability to comprehend them (which both are honestly pretty shite). So he daydreams during class—most uni students do. Especially when, like him, there’s someone much more interesting to think about.





	Top of His Class

We share a maths lecture together on Thursdays. He sits in the front row—always has since the first day of the semester. He has everything he needs in a messenger bag that looks designer and like it costs more than my ratty backpack. He has a laptop in there, alongside his notebooks and stationery. He carries his textbooks in his arms instead of putting them in his bag. It’s probably easier for him since he’s so fit.

I took the corner seat diagonally behind him so I can have an excuse to observe him. He has long black hair (for a bloke) that he slicks back unless he’s on the pitch. It’s a shame really, when he looks so much better with his hair all tousled. Though, it’s probably for the best that he slicks his hair considering the fact that it’s nearly impossible not to stare at him when strands of hair start to fall into his face, framing his sharp cheekbones and full lips. Sometimes it happens on a particularly stressful day for him; when he doesn’t focus entirely on taking notes. Not that it matters—he’s the smartest one in our year besides Penny.

Speaking of my roommate, Penelope says it’s kind of pathetic that I’ve stared at him enough to notice all these little details about him. I don’t have it in me to argue with her on it. He takes up half of my thoughts. He’s the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing on my subconscious before I fall asleep.

I’ll indulge myself with ludicrous fantasies where he confesses his feelings for me—that he _fancies_ me, that he’s been wondering what it’d be like to kiss me after scoring the winning goal for the university’s football team. Or perhaps the daydream is that he’ll see me walking to school by myself because I take earlier classes than my friends and he won’t say anything, just stand by side to take my hand in his.

These thoughts sometimes come during my lectures which has been detrimental to my grades. I’m failing my English class. It’s too difficult to focus on studying dead cishet white men when it’s so much easier to think of the very alive, very not-white man who wears pinstripe button-up shirts on an everyday basis. If he were my professor, there’s the possibility that I’d pay more attention during lecture but the reality is I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. He’s so… distracting.

“Simon, can you stay back for a moment?” my professor calls out to me. She’s taller than me even without my bad posture working against me. She’s poised, hands clasped together in front of her as she watches me traverse the small lecture hall to reach her. “How are you doing, Mr. Salisbury? Is the course load agreeing with you?”

My fingers twitch. I fight down the urge to move my hands by smiling. It feels too big for my face so I stop. “It’s fine, Professor Possibelf. I’m fine.”

She hums. Her voice is sweet like honey. She sort of reminds me of a kind old grandmother; grey, distant, yet so knowledgeable. She picks up a book— _Hamlet_ is written in neat print on the exposed binding—and she opens it to a page she has marked with a sticky note. “‘Speak. I am bound to hear.’”

“Excuse me?” I ask because quoting Shakespeare won’t take this conversation anywhere.

Professor Possibelf closes the book and smiles politely. “I’ve noticed you seem to go somewhere else during my class, Mr. Salisbury.”

“Ah,” I say, blood rushing to the surface of my cheeks. “I might.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Salisbury. I understand you have certain pitfalls with your studies. However, that doesn’t mean I won’t be concerned about your education.” Her eyes look sad like she might burst into tears right there. I know for a fact that she won’t—if there was such a thing as magic then my professor would have it, what with her ability to impart an emotional mask for her students. “You’re failing, Simon.”

I stare down at my feet. “I’m aware.”

“I’m aware that you’re aware,” she says, a smile tugging at her lips. “Which is why I took it upon myself to find you a tutor.”

“Oh Professor, you didn’t have to do that.” My words barely make it out without dying on my tongue as Ms. Possibelf raises her right hand to silence me.

“I take my students’ studies very seriously, Mr. Salisbury. Worry not, this is one of my finest pupils. He will be of great help, I’m sure.”

The door behind us opens with a creak. “Professor? You asked to see me?”

“Ah, yes. Come on in.” The crows feet by her eyes wrinkle as her smile becomes more genuine. “I appreciate you taking the time to do this. I know you’re busy, Basil.”

I try not to snap my neck at the sound of laughter. It’s close, nearly a whisper against my ear. Goosebumps rise all over my flesh as I recognize the embarrassing nature of this situation. My body moves without me wanting it to, getting closer to my tutor until I’m standing in front of him. I feel overheated when he looks at me, aims a cool smirk in my direction like he’s perfect. (He’s so perfect.) He’s standing there, hand outstretched for me to take it and I want to but I’m scared if I do then I won’t let go. Because he’s _right_ there. Brown skin and slicked back hair that’s starting to lose its normal hold. Stormy grey eyes observing me like an adversary on the pitch: intense, precise, deadly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Salisbury,” he says and his voice is a lot deeper than I remember it. “I hope that I can be of some assistance.” Baz lets his hand drop since I haven’t taken it yet, taking everything in stride like nothing can touch him. _I_ can’t touch him, Baz.

_Baz._


End file.
